By hidden river bank sweet cowslips blow
fanfares for elves; pale golden primrose, palled
in pleated green, vaults the shy violet.
My phantom foot falls upon trodden earth
Fire licked my mountain's
molten lambent seams,
spinning unvalued tokens
to his chuckling streams.
I met an old woman who lives on a hill.
The path to her house is a dreadful treadmill.
Now, you may imagine she has not one friend,
for none would be willing that path to ascend.